


Together we got plenty superpower

by betterrooms



Category: One Direction (Band)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Boarding School, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-12-30
Updated: 2013-12-30
Packaged: 2018-01-06 16:47:26
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,611
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1109182
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/betterrooms/pseuds/betterrooms
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>'Zayn finally realises why it is that his heart bangs against his ribs when he’s sitting next to Niall.</p><p>He loves him. He’s in love with him.'</p><p>Ziall boarding school AU.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Together we got plenty superpower

**Author's Note:**

  * For [icecreamsocialist](https://archiveofourown.org/users/icecreamsocialist/gifts).



> Title taken from Superpower, Beyonce. 
> 
> This is dedicated to the lovely Lindsay icecreamsocialist who suggested that I write a Zayn/Niall boarding school AU ficlet some time ago. I got carried away.
> 
> I'm afraid I went to a rundown rural comprehensive and have no first hand knowledge of what boarding school might be like. Please forgive any inaccuracies.

It's dark out at the edge of the football field. In the distance Zayn can see the silhouette of the almost empty school building, lit up from within by the few students still inside. His head is fogged up, clouded by the Irish whiskey he's been passing back and forth with Niall.

'Here mate' Niall says, handing the bottle to Zayn again. Their fingers meet for a moment on the smooth glass. Zayn's heart skips in his chest.

'Thanks' he says, swallowing a burning throat full of whiskey. The late autumn air has a sharp edge to it, a bite that nips at the back of his neck.

He sneaks a sideways glance at Niall, he's checking his phone and the light from the screen illuminates the line of his profile.

Zayn once again feels a heaviness deep in his gut, the weight of certainty. The certainty that it doesn't matter what happens, he cannot go on without at least trying to feel the press of Niall's mouth against his, without cupping Niall's jaw in his cold hands, without feeling Niall’s narrow chest against his own.

He has to kiss him.

 

–

 

In the first month that Zayn’s spent at boarding school he’s done his best just to keep his head down. On the first day of term he'd been shown round by a boy with a crisp cut-glass accent. Zayn had done his best to hide his nerves, stuffing his hands in the pockets of his new, stiff, uniform trousers so that no one could see them shake. Flipping his lighter over and over in his palm. The boy had given him a tour, only breaking from telling him about famous historical alumni or the age of the buildings by asking where he was from and what his father did. When Zayn replied that he was from Bradford and that his dad was an electrician the boy had just said, 'ah scholarship boy then' and hadn't asked any more.

When Zayn looked back on it now he knew that he hadn't actually been interested, he'd just wanted to know where to place him. To find out if Zayn was important or rich or well connected like so many of the other kids here. As soon as he knew that Zayn had nothing to offer, he couldn't be bothered to keep the conversation going. So much for the school's inclusive admissions policy Zayn had read over when he'd applied.

Zayn's the first in his family to go to boarding school, unlike most of the other boys whose dads and grandfathers and great grandfathers came here too. He's here on an academic scholarship, he'd done so well in his GCSEs that the headmaster of his comprehensive suggested he applied to go to sixth form here. So he'd carefully filled in a form. Answered questions about what the opportunity to go to one of the grandest and oldest public schools in the country would mean to him as a kid from a _deprived background_. He'd felt strange about that phrase. He'd never felt deprived, he'd never lacked for anything he needed in his crowded family home that was full of love.

But when the other boys talk about summer internships in New York, skiing holidays to family chalets in the Alps, country retreats and London townhouses, Zayn feels as though he’s wearing his poverty like a badge. Like everyone who looks at him can see some mark that shows that he’s never left the country, that he doesn’t even have a passport. That he’s seen seen his parents bent over the kitchen table late at night, adding up the bills, the lines of worry by their eyes in case this is a month they can’t afford to pay. So he keeps his head down. Doesn’t really talk to anyone more than he has to. Doesn’t speak up. Tries to stay invisible.

 

–

 

It’s a particularly cold day at the beginning of October when Zayn’s woken at a painfully early hour by his roommate tripping over his own feet.

‘Argh fuck!’ Liam says, in an impossibly loud whisper.

He looks over and sees that Zayn has opened one disgruntled eye, ‘sorry Zayn, sorry. Didn’t mean to wake you. Just off for a jog.’

He pulls his rugby team hoodie over his head and leaves, rolling his shoulders to warm up his sleep-stiff muscles as he goes.

Zayn rolls over to face the wall, pulling the duvet over his head. He’s pretty used to being woken up by Liam crashing about before the sun’s properly risen. At least as a sixth former he only has to share with one other person. The boys in the younger years all sleep six to a room in rows of matching metal-framed beds. There’s no way Zayn could’ve dealt with six times the teenage boy hormones and stench. Liam’s a fine roommate, they have enough in common that it’s never awkward and he tends to pick up his own dirty socks. He’s at the school on a rugby scholarship though, which means early mornings running round the sports fields and getting back to the room late, usually covered in dry mud.

Zayn yawns, it’ll be time to head down to the dining hall for breakfast soon. The thought of grey porridge and strangely runny scrambled eggs isn’t much motivation to heave his heavy limbs out of the warmth of his bed.

He rolls onto his back, folds his arms under his head and looks up at the wall. He’s grown quite fond of his half of his and Liam’s little room. Even if it doesn't quite feel like a home, it's comfortable. He's got a pin board above his bed where he's stuck a photo of himself with his best friend Danny, arms around each other's shoulders, tongues sticking out at the camera. He's also got a postcard with a picture of Frank Ocean and a copy of his timetable pinned up. On his bedside table he keeps a framed photo of his whole family, his dad looking down at his children with a familiar mixture of pride and exasperation on his face as they jostle each other. Zayn goes to sleep looking at it, always missing them all so so much. Feeling a new ache in his belly at being so far away.

He reaches out an arm to twitch back the curtain. There’s always a real danger he’ll fall back asleep and miss breakfast then be grumpy for the rest of the morning cause he hasn’t had his tea. Letting in the morning light helps chase the fug out of his brain.

Generally he looks forward to each day as he’s getting ready. He enjoys his classes. He loves how much is expected of him. The standard is just so much higher than at his old school. They're not being taught to scrape passes in three subjects at A level, they're being taught to get in to Oxbridge or go off to university in America, be successful and world renowned and powerful. Things Zayn had always thought were out of his reach. Now it all feels possible for the first time. The future seems to be expanding, stretching out in front of him, full of potential.

The only subject he doesn't like is P.E. He hates P.E. Absolutely hates it. He's reasonably strong and fit. He'd been going to boxing twice a week for years. But competitive team sports that involve running about in the cold, his skinny knees exposed to the sharp autumn air by his uniform maroon shorts, are really not his thing. When Liam is a team captain, he often kindly chooses Zayn for his team, even though he always just hovers at the edge of the pitch studiously avoiding having to make contact with the ball. The rest of the time he ends up being one of the last few people to be picked, standing with the gaggle of the uncoordinated, unfit and unpopular. He started mitching off only a couple of weeks into term, hiding round the back of the science block taking long drags of his cigarette or sneaking into a music practice room and playing about with the piano and singing.

As he opens the curtains he knows that today is definitely going to be another day that he avoids P.E. The early morning sun is glinting off a light dusting of frost over the school playing field. He can see the figures of the rugby team in the distance doing star jumps on the spot. There’s no way in hell that he’s going to spend two whole fucking hours running around out there in shorts.

He makes his way to his favourite practice room during break so no one catches him skiving. One of the best things about this school is that he gets to take singing lessons from a kindly woman who wears lots of floaty scarfs and jingly bangles. She always seems faintly bemused by his selection of early naughties R&B to sing but she's helped him so much with his technique. He reaches new notes every lesson, his voice soaring up his scales with growing strength. It’s very satisfying. He shuts himself into the room and starts practicing, accompanying himself roughly on the piano to check his tuning.

He's got his eyes closed, his hands on his diaphragm like his teacher taught him so he's aware of his breathing, practicing a run he's been having difficulty with when he begins to sense that someone's watching him. A prickle at the back of his neck. He opens his eyes. Leaning against the doorframe is a boy with tousled hair and a sheepish expression holding a guitar in one hand.

'Sorry, didn’t mean to disturb you, but that sounds sick mate' he says, a grin stretching across his face, 'you're fucking talented'.

Zayn doesn't really know what to say, he smiles a lopsided smile and shrugs with one shoulder. He definitely recognizes him. They’ve had a few of the same classes and it’s difficult to forget his roughly bleached hair and broad accent. He’s the sort of person that everyone probably knows.

‘Niall right?’ he says, to avoid having to talk about his own singing.

‘Yeah man. You’re seriously so good’ Niall says, stepping into the room. He perches on the edge of a chair, ‘You sound like, I dunno, Usher or something. You should be a singer, like a proper one. Can you dance? Cause if you can dance I reckon you could be so famous!’

Zayn feels heat sweep across his face and down his neck. What the fuck are you supposed to reply to something like that?

He settles on saying, 'shouldn't you be in P.E?'

He grimaces internally at his own awkwardness.

'Nah, me knee's buggered' Niall says, then he raises an eyebrow, 'shouldn't _you_ be in P.E?'

Zayn shrugs, 'yeah probably. I fucking hate P.E though'.

Niall throws his head back and laughs.

'D'you mind if I stay in here and join you?' he asks, 'we could have a bit of a jam sesh'.

And for some reason, perhaps against his better instincts to keep himself to himself and stay out of trouble, Zayn can't bring himself to say no.

 

–

 

After that Niall seems to decide that Zayn is now his friend. As though friendship is something you can just conjure out of thin air if you want to enough. He always says hi when they pass each other in the corridors, sometimes even sits next to him in their top set maths class and borrows Zayn's calculator, writes stupid little messages in the margins of his notepad.

‘Pizza for lunch.. Im buzzin’

‘Ha hah did u no Mr Watson has vodka in that thermos flask??’

‘Watched anchorman again last nite haha ! good stuff !’

In response Zayn likes to draw little cartoons, of poor Mr Watson, their long-suffering maths teacher, of other students and sometimes of Niall. One day he notices that Niall carefully rips out the little drawing of himself as a superhero Zayn had done in his exercise book and folds it and puts it in his pocket.

Niall is so different to everyone else. It's not exactly that people are rude or mean to Zayn, they're all too old for childhood bullying, but there isn't much friendliness. Niall on the other hand, seems to have an almost infinite reserve of kindness and warmth. He always has an easy laugh for even the stupidest of jokes or a companionable arm to sling round a friend's shoulder. He even sometimes tips the brim of his definitely-against-uniform-regulations snap back in greeting, like an old fashioned gentleman wearing a top hap. Zayn starts looking forward to the times they're together. Niall is like a flare, he bursts into Zayn’s life in bright rushes of light.

 

–

 

The next time they spend some time alone is in the middle of the night one Sunday in late October. Zayn can't sleep. He knows he has class early in the morning and that the longer he tosses and turns, unable to get comfortable in his narrow bed, the worse getting up in the morning will be. His mind is racing though. He can't stop thinking about an essay he'd handed in last week for English. It's his favourite subject and he loves his teacher. He's a fierce man in his sixties who has a tendency to shoot hawk like looks over his glasses if someone says something stupid in class. Zayn really wants to impress him and he feels as though he has to prove he deserves to be here. That he's worth the thousands of pounds in scholarship the school has given him. It's a lot of pressure to put on one essay about gothic imagery in The Picture of Dorian Grey that he'd only had a few days to throw together.

The problem is that the more he thinks about it, the more his mind wanders, his thoughts spiraling through all the worries he's got sitting at the back of his brain. He thinks about his sisters. Whether they're coping without him there to look out for them. He thinks about his friends, whether they'll even remember him when he goes back. He thinks about his music, about the notepad full of lyrics he's got hidden at the bottom of his pants drawer, whether it'll ever be good enough. 

Eventually he has enough of staring up at the shadows on the ceiling of his room with his heart beating too fast and his mind refusing to let him sleep. He slips out of bed, staying as quiet as possible so as not to wake Liam who's sleeping on his back with a heavy arm thrown over his face, snoring softly. He puts his slippers on, pulls his dressing gown around himself and grabs his fags and a lighter before sneaking out of the room.

He heads downstairs to the door that opens out onto the playing field and goes out into the still, dark night. He stands, shivering and taking long, deep drags of his cigarette, letting the ritual of it soothe his racing mind. He sometimes wonders whether he actually even likes smoking or just the chance it gives you to slip away, to steal some time just for yourself.

He's staring out over the blackness of the field when the door next to him creaks open. He jumps and hastily drops his cig, hiding it under the heel of his slipper.

'Oh! It's you!'

'Niall? What're you doing out here?' 

'I'm heading to the kitchen. I'm flipping starving and I reckon there must be some left over pudding or something. What're you doing out here?'

Zayn smiles a lopsided smile, 'couldn't sleep. Needed some fresh air.'

'Fresh air, yeah?' Niall laughs, 'I can smell you smoking all the way down the corridor. That's how I knew someone was out here.'

'I dunno. It clears my head or something.'

'I get it. I prefer a pint though. That's what kills me about this school. Can't get hold of any alcohol.' Niall digs a friendly elbow into Zayn's side, 'come on, come to the kitchen with me. I'll let you share some of my pudding.'

Zayn remembers the rather sad, wilted looking sponge cake served with a congealed custard from earlier that evening. He doesn't think it's really worth sneaking around the school in the dark to get a second portion but he goes with Niall anyway, kicking his cigarette butt into the pile of leaves by the door as he passes.

The kitchen has that strange heightened empty feel that a room that's usually bursting with life has when there's no one in it. The utensils hanging from hooks on the underside of the industrial looking cabinets seem oddly sinister in the half-light. Niall leads the way as though he knows the room like the back of his hand. In the enormous metal fridges that line one side of the room, leftovers in wide metal serving dishes covered with cling film fill the shelves. Niall helps himself to the one that has a few portions of cake left in it and sends Zayn to get spoons from the cutlery pots on the counter.

'Come on, let's go eat this in the dining room' Niall says, the dish held out in front of him in much the same way that the school chaplain holds the bible when he processes through the chapel on a Sunday.

'Why?' Zayn asks.

'We're not going to sit on the floor of the kitchen to eat Zayn. Jesus Christ, we're fucking civilised human beings not animals'. 

Zayn laughs out loud, a burst of noise that fills the still silence of the kitchen.

In the dining room Zayn expects Niall to choose a seat on one of the long benches, instead he climbs up onto a table and sits cross-legged on the top, digging his spoon into the sponge and shoving a huge chunk into his mouth. He tips his head in an invitation for Zayn to join him. Zayn figures in for a penny, in for a pound, and scrambles onto the table, folding his legs in front of him.

'D'you know, I think everything tastes better in the middle of the night' Niall says with a mouth full of crumbs. 'It's like a kebab. No one's ever eaten a kebab in the day. It'd be fucking disgusting. 2 o'clock in the morning though, heaven.'

Zayn smiles, taking his own bite of cake. He's struck once again by how different Niall is to everyone else.

'How'd you end up here?' Zayn asks.

'What, sitting on a table eating pudding out of the dish with your skinny arse?'

'No, here? Like, at this school?'

'Eh, my mam got a job as a diplomat. She's always travelling and stuff and she wanted me to be close to her when she's in London. I've only been here a few years though. I lived with my Da back in Mullingar before that. How about you?'

'I got a scholarship for sixth form' Zayn says, 'it's a pretty weird place though. I don't think I'm used to it yet.'

'I dunno it's not so bad' Niall says, 'some stuff you never get used to. Like, wearing a tailcoat for chapel? Fuck that. But it's ok really. Hey, you know what. I can show you the ropes. Stick with me and you'll be ok'

Zayn looks over, Niall’s smiling at him and it creases the corners of his eyes, pushes a dimple into his cheek. Zayn reaches out a finger and pokes at the dent. Niall’s skin is warm under his fingertip.

‘What did you do that for? Ya weirdo’ Niall says, laughing.

‘I like seeing you smile’ Zayn says. ‘Wait, sorry. That’s weird. I dunno why I said that. Sorry, it’s late. I’m tired.’ He tucks his hands in his lap and looks down.

Niall reaches out and ruffles his hair, ‘S’alright. I like weirdos. Come on, we should get to bed’ He hops down from the table with the dish under one arm. Zayn follows him back towards the kitchen. As they walk Niall throws an arm round Zayn’ shoulder, and just for a second, tucks his face into the crook of Zayn’s neck.

When Zayn's back in bed, trying to snatch at least a couple of hours sleep before his alarm goes off, with a belly full of slightly stale cake and pyjamas that smell of smoke, it's this that pops into his mind. That tiny moment of secret intimacy that seems like a hidden sanctuary in this unfamiliar and unwelcoming world. For the first time since he arrived at boarding school, Zayn can’t help but drift off to sleep with a smile.

 

–

 

Niall stays true to his word. He starts sitting next to Zayn when Zayn manages to drag himself, half asleep, down to breakfast. He talks a mile a minute with his cheeks stuffed with fry up and laughs with his whole body, doubling over, his back shaking.

He starts popping in to Zayn's room some evenings, bringing his guitar. They hangout while Liam's at practice and they can make as much noise as they like. Zayn likes to share new music he's found on YouTube. He brings up the videos on Niall's iPhone and they sit side-by-side, heads tilted together to watch. Niall likes to improvise on his guitar while they chat, sometimes he almost seems to use his guitar as extra punctuation when he's talking, playing chords to emphasise the punch lines of his jokes. 

Zayn likes it when they sing together. They work out rough versions of Michael Jackson songs and sing along to Usher. Niall makes them try out old Justin Beiber songs too and Zayn eventually gets bored of teasing him about it, preferring to join in, trying not to laugh when he realises just how many of the lyrics Niall knows off by heart. 

Zayn doesn't go over to Niall's room. His roommate is a rather intimidating plummy boy who wears red cord trousers on Saturdays and talks loudly about the latest horribly important person his daddy met at his club. But the half term holiday comes a week into November and most people go home. Zayn doesn't because the train back up north is expensive and he needs to save his money for Christmas. Niall doesn't go home either. His mum's away working and he says that he doesn't think it's worth the flight back over to Ireland to see his dad for only a few days. They find themselves being some of the only students left. 

A lot of the time they're kept busy by the staff who've stayed behind, running errands around the school. The rest of the time they work on the enormous amounts of holiday homework they've been set. They've got their first set of AS Level exams in January and none of their teachers are letting them forget it. The evenings though are blissfully peaceful. Zayn spends them all with Niall.

On the Tuesday Niall pops his head round Zayn's bedroom door and says, 'come over to my room. Tarquin's away and I wanna watch a film on my laptop.'

Zayn goes with him, bundled up in a pair of soft worn jeans and his leavers hoodie from his old school. It's got the names of all the kids from his GCSE class on the back, a list of everyone he's left behind. Niall's half of his room is neat. Everything on the shelves is lined up carefully and the clothes in his open wardrobe are folded and arranged by colour. He has a huge Irish flag blue tacked to the wall above his bed. Tarquin's half looks like a Ralph Lauren exploded. Expensive looking knitwear and brightly coloured jeans are piled up on his unmade bed. Niall kicks at a pair of beaten up boat shoes in the middle of the room as he passes.

'I've got a bootleg of the new Thor film on my laptop' Niall says, 'wanna watch it with me?'

'Really? Sick man' Zayn says, settling himself on top of Niall's bed, 'I really wanted to see it in the cinema. Sucks being stuck in school'.

'I know, you said. That's why I downloaded it' Niall says, bringing it up on the screen.

The two of them sit sideways on Niall's bed, with their backs against the wall and Niall's laptop in between them. Niall reaches out to turn off the main light above them so the room is lit only by the glow of the film. Zayn finds himself feeling strangely aware of Niall's shoulder where it presses against his. Of the line of Niall's narrow thigh in pale jeans that mirrors his own in his black jeans.

Niall is brilliant to watch a film with. He's so unselfconscious about his reactions. When he finds something funny he throws his head back and laughs, when something surprises him he gasps without embarrassment and when Thor strides across the screen topless he sniggers into Zayn's shoulder. Zayn has more fun than he's had since he let home, even though he keeps getting distracted by counting the dark freckles that decorate Niall's neck.

When the film finishes Niall shuts his laptop with a click. Outside, late autumn rain blows against the windows. Inside, Niall's room feels warm and cosy.

'D'you want me to head back to my room?' Zayn asks.

'Nah, hang around for a bit if you want' Niall says, putting his computer back on his desk. He stretches, the hem of his vest top slipping up revealing a soft line of hair that slips under the waistband of his pants. He sits back down on the bed and Zayn stretches out next to him.

'I don't think I've ever met someone like you before' Zayn says.

'Should I take that as a compliment or an insult?

'A compliment! Obviously a compliment. Like, back at home, everyone was always trying to prove they were cool or hard or, I dunno, whatever' Zayn says, twisting his hands together in his lap. 'Everyone else here wants to seem important. You're just yourself, you know? Like, you're just Niall'.

'You saying I'm not cool?'

'Nah man, course not. I'm saying you're the coolest, cause you don't even try'.

'I dunno, feel like I try pretty hard actually' Niall says, but when Zayn looks up and meets his eye, he’s smiling.

A silence stretches out between them. It's not awkward, but it feels heavy. Niall lies down next to Zayn so they’re face to face on top of the bedclothes.

‘You wanna just sleep in here tonight? It’s weird without Tarquin’ Niall asks.

‘Sure man’ Zayn says, muffling a yawn with the back of his hand, ‘Don’t want you to get lonely’.

So they lie, their faces only inches apart, letting the silence of the empty school and the warmth of Niall’s bedroom lull them off to sleep. As Zayn feels his eyes grow heavy, as sleep pulls him under, he thinks to himself with the characteristic lack of self awareness of those who find themselves helplessly falling for someone, that Niall would be really very easy to fall in love with.

 

–

 

On Thursday Niall tells Zayn that his brother is coming to visit the following day.

‘It’s gonna be so good to see him. I haven’t seen him since the beginning of the summer’ Niall says, bouncing a little on his toes.

On Friday, Zayn doesn’t see him all day. He sets himself up in the library to work on an essay for history. Something about Disraeli and the Corn Laws. He keeps half an eye out for Niall as he works, listening out for his voice echoing down the oak paneled corridors, but there’s no sign of him. 

After a long day during which he managed to write 2,000 words and spend about four hours procrastinating horribly by reading chains of linked Wiki articles and checking Facebook, Zayn decides to give up working and head back to his room. He hasn’t felt settled all day, he’s been restless and fidgety, unable to stop twisting his pen between his fingers while he read and tapping his foot against the table leg as he typed.

He’s lying on his bed flicking through a book that he’s supposed to be reading for next week when Niall knocks lightly on his door.

‘Y’alright?’ he asks, perching on the end of Zayn’s bed.

‘Yeah, boring day. How’s your brother?’

‘It was fuckin awesome to see him!’ Niall says. Then he reaches into the front pocket of his hoodie, ‘Look what he brought me

Niall holds out a bottle of Tullamore Dew, ‘wanna get fucked up?’

‘What? Niall, we’re not allowed alcohol in school.’

‘Ah, stop your worrying.’ Niall says, bringing a broad palm down onto Zayn’s narrow shin. ‘Come outside with me.’

And once again, against all of Zayn’s better instincts to keep himself out of trouble, he follows Niall out through the darkened school to a spot across the playing fields that has an old bench that’s topped with a layer of lichen and moss that feels damp and springy under Zayn’s hands when he sits down.

Niall takes a long drink from the bottle, hissing as he swallows.

‘Ah, that’s good stuff’ he says, ‘I haven’t had a drink in ages.’

He passes the whiskey over to Zayn who takes a more cautious sip, letting it warm him from the inside.                                                                                                                                                                                   

There’s a cold breeze that moves the bushes behind them, pulls a few more burnt orange autumn leaves from the branches. Zayn shivers and crosses his arms over his chest.

‘You cold mate?’ Niall says, ‘Here, have a drink, it’ll warm you up’

‘Why do I get the feeling that whiskey is your answer to everything?’

‘Eh, not everything. Sometimes you need a pint instead. Depends on your mood’

Zayn laughs.

‘Right now though, I can tell you need a whiskey, it’ll relax you’ Niall says. And as he speaks he takes off his woolen scarf and wraps it around Zayn’s neck, patting the ends against Zayn’s chest.

‘You don’t need to give me your scarf’ Zayn says.

‘Yeah I do. I can feel you shivering and I’m warm enough.’

And it’s that moment, that for Zayn, everything changes. Niall doesn’t seem to notice that the whole world has tilted dramatically and suddenly on its axis. That the universe is different now than it was three seconds ago. That Zayn has finally realised why it is that his heart bangs against his ribs when he’s sitting next to Niall.

He loves him.

He’s in love with him.

How could he not be? Niall is warm and funny, has embraced Zayn and all his differences and given him space to be himself. Niall is gorgeous, almost Zayn’s opposite, his scruffy blonde hair and open features in contrast with Zayn’s sharp edges, his self-conscious vanity. 

Zayn sits as still as possible, scared that Niall will somehow hear his blood racing through his veins and will know that Zayn is desperately in hopeless, all-consuming love with him.

Zayn takes a deep drink from the bottle, lets it scald his chest in hopes that it’ll somehow stop his heart from hammering. When he looks over at Niall he seems not to have noticed a thing, too busy checking his phone before pocketing it and gesturing with his hands for Zayn to pass the whiskey back to him.

‘Niall’ Zayn says.

‘Yes, mate’

Zayn feels as though he’s going to be sick. The words he wants to say are racing though his mind _kiss me, I love you, you’re perfect, you’re gorgeous, you’re brilliant, is there any way in a million years that you could love me too?_ But they seem to be stuck in his throat.

'I can fucking hear you worrying' Niall says, leaning back. ‘What’s up?’

And with that, the binding that is keeping Zayn still, holding his tongue and stopping him moving, seems to break.

‘Please don’t hate me’ he whispers and leans forward and places a clumsy kiss against Niall’s lips.

He stays still with his eyes closed, counting the seconds that pass, waiting for Niall to pull back, to punch him, to run away.

Instead Niall sighs, a soft noise that is only just audible over the wind. He pulls back just a small amount and then kisses Zayn again. The warmth of his mouth against Zayn’s is delicious. 

Just as Zayn goes to bring a hand up to Niall’s jaw, to cup his face in his hands, Niall breaks the kiss.

‘You eejit. Why would I hate you?’ Niall says.

‘Fuck, I’m sorry’ Zayn says, ‘I just, I needed to kiss you. I’m sorry.’

‘Stop fucking apologising. I wanted you to kiss me’ Niall pauses, ‘I’ve wanted you to kiss me for ages.’ 

Zayn looks over, ‘really?’

‘Yeah, really. Have you seen yourself lately mate? And I dunno, I like you. You know?’

Zayn looks down at his hands. ‘Would it be OK if maybe’ he takes a deep breath, ‘if maybe I kissed you again?’

But before he can finish talking, Niall has a gentle finger under his chin. He tips Zayn’s face towards him and leans in, smiling. 

‘Go on then’ Niall says.

And as Zayn kisses Niall again, feels a swoop of happiness in his belly, he knows that while it’s sometimes necessary to keep your head down, it takes being brave to get you what you want.

**Author's Note:**

> If you enjoyed this, come say hi on Tumblr.  
> indoorrain.tumblr.com


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